


Liebestod (Love/Death)

by ballpoint



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-06
Updated: 2007-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary</b>: In which Bellatrix Black holds her own rites for a slain comrade, and dwells on a memory or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liebestod (Love/Death)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer**: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**  
> **Author's notes**: A Rowan tree is traditionally used to ward off evil spirits, and druids dyed their cloaks in the juice of Rowan berries and bark to ward off evil. In West Indian folklore, salt water is used to minimise the effects of 'bad magic'. For the purposes of this story, Burke is Alice Longbottom's maiden name. Despite an exhaustive research by this writer, Alice's Longbottom's maiden name remains a mystery. In November, the British celebrate Guy Fawkes'/Bonfire night, and the little ditty Bellatrix thinks about at the start is a part of the rhyme.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks Sandra, for giving this a look over. All remaining faults, canon and otherwise are mine.
> 
> ** Dedication**: to Shannon, the Bellatrix story I promised I'd write and now it's done too late for you to read. :*(

_November 5th, 1981_.

 

It was done.

Bellatrix Black stood in front of the house, wiping the blood from her wand on her robes, feeling the screams of occupants within giving way to garbled moans. The neighbourhood was deathly quiet, the silence rolling over the shrieks which shredded the air to tatters earlier now suddenly ended in a crack and a gurgle of breath. Bellatrix shuddered at the aftermath of it; she told herself that it was the night, with the breeze as sharp as blows to go with the fierce chill. The night was spilt ink, and in the distance, there was the faint nimbus of Muggle street lights. Those would be dimmed soon enough; her thoughts were focused on now.

The air was clear, she noted, and one could smell the scrim of the frost as it crept closer. In the morning, the grass would be silvered by frost and crunching underfoot. It was Bonfire Night, and one could still smell the smoke. Right now in the background, the choking sounds of Crouch Jr. being sick, and Rastaban's rumble of amusement at his companion's distress. She caught snatches of the mumbles by her companions, filled with awe at Bellatrix's earlier actions.

"It is done."

Bellatrix turned at the sound of her husband's voice.

Rodolphus Lestrange's tones were calm and smooth as cream. This was something Bellatrix envied, her husband's unflappable mien. It was as if eugenics bred temperance in his bones, just as much as his dark hair and light eyes. She wished she could be like that, especially now, when emotion threatened to scratch and tear free from the column of her throat and express itself in unknown tongues. She wanted no- she _needed_ to be away.

"So it is," Bellatrix forced her voice to be calm, forced herself to respond. What she did was unavoidable; she chose her side, just as the Longbottoms had chosen theirs.

_Remember, remember, the fifth of November, of treason, gunpowder and plot_. In the olden days, traitors were burnt in a tub of tar and thrown into the river. Tonight, she did one better.

"We need to be away," Lestrange sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring at the keenness of it. "The Aurors might be here soon, as well as other members of the Order- we may be toying with express tickets to Azkaban." if we're not careful." He finished, scanning their surroundings through narrowed eyes. The Longbottoms had done themselves a disservice, living in this hollow. The house's stone walls strangled its inhabitants' screams and pleas during that nasty bit of business. Their only witnesses were trees, twisted and gnarled by age, and time their branches scraping against the glass panes of the windows like fingernails, a futile protest to the wreck of witches within. The nearest neighbour was two miles away and in this Dark Time people never ventured out after the sunset.

"After all that," Bellatrix shook her head viciously as she tightened her grip on her wand, "and she didn't yield. We didn't get the whereabouts of our Lord and the rest-" At this Lestrange shrugged his shoulders.

"True, but _that_ matter is beyond our purview. We should disappear for the moment and regroup." Bellatrix stiffened at this. She could not go home. Not with him not just yet. _ I know of reason, of why such treason should ever be forgot_.

"Not now," she started, not knowing exactly what to say, although she knew he knew what her thoughts were. There were social mores for everything, she knew. From writing a thank you note for enjoying a holiday at a wizard's _Schloss_; to demurring acceptance for an unfortunate gift from an ardent admirer. However, there was none for this, not this. At least, not in the Wizarding world.

"I need to attend to an errand, my love," she said, her voice firm.

"Bella, we need to go to ground-"

"There's something I need to do."

"Fine." Lestrange said, and Bellatrix heard the thread of annoyance as it snaked through the placid tones of his voice. She did not take offence, for her husband was caution personified. Normally, after bloody assignments, Bellatrix would take to the skies, or saddle a mount and ride. She was a hound that continuously strained at its leash, only calling to heel for one. They both knew that if Lestrange insisted, Bellatrix might have eventually backed down, and done as bid.

"Don't tarry too long," Lestrange raised his wand and pointed to the general area above the thatched roof of the house, and mutely, Bellatrix followed as she raised her wand to be parallel with his.

With a murmur of _Mosmorde_ phosphorous green ribbons unfurled from their wands and floated slyly in the air, becoming sinuous streams of illumination as they swirled around and flirted with each other; then congealing into form as they formed the skull with its snake protruding from its mouth.

"I won't." Bellatrix offered a few minutes later, glad that her husband did not seek to be difficult. As such, she could afford to be gracious.

"Try not to be," Lestrange nodded as he pulled the cowl of his robes over his head. "It's dangerous out here." He then raised his voice a fraction to speak to the others: "Apparate, find your stations and await our signal." On a puff of breath, the coven of Death Eaters disapparated, leaving Bellatrix alone, in front of the cottage, her face set into severe lines. "I shan't," she said. Her voice was an answer to no-one, as she took her last look at the house, and thought of the shells of the pair within. Her lips pursed into a stern moue, she disapparated too.

***

The vicarage was situated a stone's throw from the church. It stood as it always did, within the heart of the village for the past five hundred years. You had to go past the cricket field, and turn left at the pub before you arrived there. The walls that surrounded it- they of shale and stone- weren't as sturdy now, the rocks displaced and far flung by earth, time and man. There had been a flower garden, once, but it died with the woman of the house. Instead of an ordered patchwork of flora, there were patches and scrubs of earth where lavender and violets used to be. The vicar of Wateringbury dwelt here. He spent his days stationed in the nearby parish church, attending to the souls under his care. At night, Geoffrey Smith would come home, have supper and tend to the housekeeping business of the church.

 

He spent the rest of his time reading from The Good Book before nursing a cuppa and turning in for bed.

It was not an exciting life, but it was a good one. The snap of autumn made him stir with its familiarity, one could never get used to the cold. It started innocently enough, before it stole into the bones and steeped deep within until spring. With a shudder, Geoffrey found himself stoking extra wood in the hearth in the front parlour, wishing that his calling lead him to serve souls in Andalusia, or Barbados.

He had an idle moment entertaining the thought of making a hot water bottle for his bed, and probably reading the local paper until he dozed off until the hairs at the back of his neck suddenly stood up, his flesh suddenly chilled with goose bumps, a breath before he heard the sizzle of air before the muted 'pop.' With a gasp, he spun on his heel and stumbled, blindly grasping the edge to the nearby table to steady himself, only to see the flicker of shadows by the flame becoming dense, transforming into lines and curves and becoming three dimensional.

On a murmur, Geoffrey crossed himself at the sight of the form that stood by his hearth. It was dark, clad in robes of ink. Its form radiated _mal intent_, the gleam of its eye sparked as it caught the light of the flame and when it threw back the cowl of its robe, he jumped and gave a shriek of surprise. It was a woman - a tall one - her face framed by the sleek black length of her tresses, her skin stained rose and orange from the warmth of the fire's flames. For a moment both of them stared at each other. He was painfully aware of what this denizen saw -a slightly stooped balding old man in his bed robe and night shirt, his fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of the table.

"Vicar," the wraith greeted, her vowels precisely enunciated, and her voice definitely of the upper crust, and oddly, it made him remember his manners.

"I-" he started. "Oh, good evening."

"Good night," she moved fractionally closer, seemingly ignoring Geoffrey's wince. "I hear that you cure people?"

"Erm, I beg your pardon?"

"You're a _curate_, you heal people's souls, make them clean again, so I gather?"

"I - ah," Geoffrey started, "well… yes. _Metaphorically_. I'm a vicar. I normally do liturgical rites birth, death, and counselling and that sort of thing."

"Oh," at this she stilled, her hair fell about her face like ribbons, with the mad glint of her eyes peering through.

"You do death rites?"

"Yes, yes I do." Geoffrey straightened, feeling marginally more at ease now; the more this woman spoke, the firmer his footing became. She might have come from no where like a bat out of _well_ but she wanted a service, a death rite. Probably it was just a new member of the congregation that just moved here or something. A bit odd, this entire goings on, but at the heart of it everyone needed guidance and hope.

"Ah, well then vicar, you can help me." she started, her voice low and halting.

"I'd like to perform a death rite. How do I go about doing this? Are there any spells or specific portions that need to be acquired?"

"Erm… no," Geoffrey shook his head slowly; despite himself he was drawn to the odd formality of her voice and found himself responding to the imperiousness of her manner. "You normally close the rite with a service, and you normally deliver some sort of eulogy -" At her questioning silence, he tried to explain. "You see, the rite is more for the living, when you reflect on the person's life, and legacy."

"Ah, the oldest rite of all, oral." she nodded solemnly. "Does it matter whom I perform it for?"

"No, I can't see why not," Geoffrey started. "At the end of the day, it's your reflection."

At this, he saw her nod, and was caught in the intensity of her stare as her eyes searched and pinned his. "I'm here to perform a rite," she started, her voice a rasp of emotion. "I'm here to say good bye to Alice Burke Longbottom."

"I understand," Vicar Geoffrey Jones nodded, relieved at the request. "Would you care for a spot of tea?"

She could kill him. He was only a Muggle, after all. A bumbling idiot of a Muggle, who stuttered and stammered and if she didn't need him, she would have flayed the skin off his bones with a cutting curse. Bellatrix Black Lestrange had no part or parcel for anything Muggle. Without magic, one was useless, a _Squib_. Nothing, she reasoned, could be lower.

However.

The Muggles had their own sort of magic here. True, the magic was terribly nascent and unpredictable, unbearably _crude_ but it existed. They still conducted the archaic notions of birth and death despite their split from the wizarding world five centuries ago. It was not as strong as the wizarding world's, but she couldn't risk that world now. Bellatrix had destroyed tonight, and she had to honour the dead. The… curate? laid the tea service on the table; sterling silver tray with the cups, saucers and teapot- "Hold." Bellatrix raised her hand to shoulder height as she stepped forward, her eyes narrowing with appreciation with what she saw. The Muggles had magic, but did not choose to use it.

Of _course_ they were better off dead. "Pardon?" Bellatrix absently waved the nervous curate away as she moved towards the table and with a flick of her wrist, everything else save the tray and teapot- as if caught in the slipstream of a gale -hovered, zoomed and crashed to the wall, before bouncing off stone and clattered to the floor.

She had not done this since Divination classes at Hogwarts, and in a way, it seemed fitting. A makeshift pensive was risky; Bellatrix dared not transfer her memories to the shallow tray. Divination only told the present and the future and… but what was the use of magic if it could not be manipulated?

"Memories are never accurate," Bellatrix began conversationally, as she poured the liquid from the teapot into the shallow lip of the tray, taking care that its surface did not ripple too much. "I find that books and people lie." Carefully she cleaned her wand with her robe, making sure that the residual blood disappeared with a simple household spell. On a gust of breath, she held the tip of the wand above the amber coloured fluid, taking care not to break its surface tension until the edges of the tray started to mist, and stole across its formerly clear reflection.

She took a moment to genuflect, remembering the first time she ever did such a rite. She was under the hawkish glare of her governess after Caliban, a faithful house elf came to a sticky end due to a spell gone awry. Bellatrix circumvented the detailed formalities of the chant, and cast a circle of fire around the silver tray.

"That which I scry is attracted to me, as the moth is drawn to flame," she began, holding her wand aloft for a minute before touching the surface of the tray again. "Memory, reveal thyself to me, one and two and both make three."

  
**Memory I**   


In retrospect, Bellatrix Black could never say how Alice Burke and she became friends. Although they were purebloods, they never really travelled in the same society. Hogwarts, in its own way, had been The Great Social Leveller, but even then it should have been hard.

"Eurgh, those Gryffindors!" Alice raged as she stormed into the common room. With an absent wave of her wand, her broom landed with a thud on the oversized seats. With an ill- natured scowl, she raised her wand and aimed it towards the hearth.

"Bloody common room," Alice murmured, _sotto voce_. "Even in the height of summer, it's always cold."

"Yes?" Bellatrix raised her head from the parchment she was reading, her chill tones telling her companion in no uncertain terms what she thought of the intrusion into _her_ quiet space; conveniently ignoring the fact that the common room was in use for all Slytherins. Bellatrix also raised an eyebrow at the fire now burning merrily in the hearth, but said nothing else.

"Accusing us of diving, and bad sportsmanship," Alice folded her arms across her chest and huffed out a disgusted breath, gusting her fringe upwards. "They tried to get Madame Hooch to disqualify us from the Quidditchh semifinals even though they couldn't prove anything!"

"And?" Bellatrix started as she slowly rolled up the parchment while listening to her housemate. "Did you?" At this a sly smile crept across Alice's face, it brightened her eyes and made her plain features seem a bit more alluring than they really were, and a becoming flush stole across her skin. In idle moments, Bellatrix found herself admiring Alice's skin. Burke was as plain as milk, but her complexion was remarkable. Unblemished, with the colour and texture of rich cream, but touched with a slight tint of rose to it when Alice was moved by strong emotions such as anger or amusement, and it tinged now with the latter.

"Of course," Alice answered with a knowing smirk, absently running her fingers through her hair. "We're Slytherins- and winning is _everything_."

Bellatrix's laughter bounced off the walls of the room.

 

  
** and two**   


"I've done it. My honour cannot be disparaged. We're here, and now, can we turn back?"

"Bellatrix Black," Alice's giggle was a warm gust of wind in her ear. She could feel the warmth of Alice's fingers through her robes as they briefly squeezed her shoulder, and quickly let go. The weight of their robes brushed together, and Bellatrix's cowl was loosened from her head and fell about her shoulders.

"Are you afraid?" Alice's voice fairly rang with amusement. "Ickle Bellatrix, afraid of being so far from Hogwarts on this night?"

At this taunt, Bellatrix straightened to her full height, her chin titled just so, her shoulders thrown back. With a swish of robes, she stepped inside. The Blacks knew how to _move_ after all. After passing the threshold, she then stopped, her eyes taking in the high arches and the outlines along the ceiling. Even in the dim light, she could recognise the gilt of gold above her head. "Of course not," Bellatrix idly brushed her hair from her shoulders.

"Of course not," Alice parroted, her voice heavy with mirth. Bellatrix heard the murmur of the spell before a soft warm golden glow appeared around them. It was an interesting effect, their immediate area polished with light, with deep variations in radiance and shade as dictated by the vast spaces and crevices of the church. For a brief moment, Bellatrix imagined that they were in a woodcut print, or a sort of painting. Turning around, she saw that Alice had lit all the votive candles in the Chapel to the left of the nave, and Bellatrix saw St. Paul's for the first time. She expected opulence, with heavy silks and velvets in their splendour, to be dazzled with the gilt of gold on every surface.

Not the formal austerity of the pews, the rich glow of wood in the light, the air scented with beeswax and lemon. Her eyes could make out impressions in the dome above them, but she did not settle on that. The huge organ with its pipes bayoneting heaven was stunning, and Bellatrix wished she had taken her lessons seriously, because she would have like to have played on such an instrument to make the air tremble. All those features were amusing diversions, but it was the hum of power that interested her. The static of it that played in her hair, yanked at her robes. Slowly, Bellatrix raised her hand to shoulder height, aware of the air rippling at her fingertips. Quickly, she snapped her fingers shut, trying to trap a bit of it, rather disconcerted at how it flowed through her fingers like water.

"The Muggles? They own this?"

"Yes, they erm… worship here." Alice said. "They do the old rites, even some that the wizarding world doesn't do anymore. Their magic is rather… primitive. They've split themselves from it over the centuries. You have to find it at various sacred places. This is but one manifestation."

"Hmmm. All this..." Bellaxtrix spun around slowly, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back, as she waggled her fingers, trying to feel its varying textures. Inwardly she shuddered, wondering why on earth anyone would split themselves from magic on purpose.

"Pearls before swine, I gather?"

"Probably," her friend agreed, picking up on Bellatrix's interest in the phenomenon despite the bite of her remark. "But it works, at times."

"Quite." Bellatrix responded, her voice steeped with curiosity more than anything else, as she peered up at the ceiling. "I really wish you'd have allowed us to carry our brooms, it would have been interesting to see the artist's work up close. I think he might have done great- great grandmother's portrait, I recognise the style."

"I don't know how our magic would work in a church, to be honest." Alice admitted, as she linked their arms together. "I wouldn't want us to risk it. You've felt the ripples, haven't you? We could draw on it, but -"

"What are we doing here anyway?" Bellatrix asked, looking at Alice.

"You said you'd never been in a Muggle establishment before, I thought you might've liked it. You're always so churlish when it comes to the Muggle students in our class and-" Alice began.

"They don't belong in our world." Bellatrix said, her voice rich with scorn, as she broke away from Alice's grasp. "Backward and savage and weak. I don't know why you keep defending them. They are _not_ a part of our world even though weak witches like you make them to be."

A militant glint flashed in Alice's eyes. That stubborn tilt to the chin that showed Bellatrix pushed too far. "They used to be, once."

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow at that. Burke knew her own mind. It was a trait of Alice that Bellatrix herself had respected, even admired, although she never said so aloud. "Once," Bellatrix acknowledged, folding her arms in a fit of pique. Her fascination with the church forgotten at the moment. There was a tense silence for a minute, and Bellatrix sighed, wondering why Alice had to make things difficult.

"Ach," she heard Alice say, her voice a chime of fun. Bellatrix felt the weight of an arm around her shoulder, and was caught off guard with a noisy, sloppy kiss on her cheek. "Is this going to be a constant bone of contention between us, darling? If so, tell me now, so I can hex you." Despite herself, Bellatrix wrinkled her nose in unwilling amusement as she placed her hand on Alice's own. That was Alice for you, her manner plain and warm as her features.

"You're a daft one, Burke, but it shan't come to that. Besides, even if it did," she titled her head in Alice's direction, and shot her friend a sultry smile.

"If it ever came to curses, I'll win -ow!"

"You deserve a boxed ear." Alice scoffed.

"Cheeky!"

** one and two, and both are three**

Bellatrix hated Nottingham. Every poxy bit of it. The soot blackened walls that told on its industrial past when the Muggles, frustrated by their lack of magic, sought to improve on their dexterity. They ravaged the countryside, upended leylines and magical stones. Ran the Good Folk to ground, they did, and slain the trees leaving nothing but undulating land in their wake. Bloody midlands. Brooding, she stood on the roof of what was said to be the oldest bar in Christendom. _Ye Olde Jerusalem_, where pilgrims stopped and quaffed ale before continuing their journey to The Holy Land. Bah. The town clock bells in the distance chimed eight, and it was already dark. She should away, waylay Lestrange and force him to take her on the hunt.

Bellatrix yearned to sip on the head of violence, for The Great War between the Wizarding World and the Muggles was at hand, she could but just _feel_ it, but she was here, forced to tarry due to the bonds of friendship. Bah.

"Bellatrix." The voice was familiar: less girlish and sweet, more authoritative. Leisurely Bellatrix turned, her wand at the ready, although she knew who the person was.

"Alice," Bellatrix greeted, her happiness genuine. After Hogwarts, they had gone their separate ways. "You look well; I hear that you're an Auror now? And with child, how fortuitous."

"I am," Alice confirmed. "I have been for the past two years. And Neville…" her face dimpled with happiness at this, her eyes alive with a twinkle, and her cheeks flushed becomingly. The beatific expression on her face did not stay long though, to Bellatrix's disappointment, and she found out the instant Alice spoke. "Bellatrix-" Alice started, her voice catching on her friend's name. "I called you to speak to you, I know about your involvement with the Death Eaters and I- what were you thinking?"

"If you already know," Bellatrix's voice was cold with the surety of certainty, "I don't need to repeat myself, do I? Our master knows what there is to be done, and has the bottle to do it. He's not afraid to exercise his powers - in a way that the Wizengot has forgotten about."

"Black, this is not the way. Your lord is at best, misguided, who's to say that he's right?"

"Who's to say that he's wrong?" Bellatrix snarled, as she circled Alice, and warily, Alice kept her distance. "As it is, we witches have to skulk around in this world, and keep ourselves hidden from Muggles. The Great Divide came into place 400 years ago to keep us in our respective places, and it is crumbling, Alice. Our hierarchy is falling apart, and it's Muggle sympathisers like you that will be the death of our kind. At this rate, there won't be anything for your child a _pureblood_ to hold on to. _Toujours pur_," Bellatrix finished, her bosom heaving at the passion that her speech engendered within her. "It's not just a motto, Alice, it's The Way."

 

"So it's true, then." Alice's face grew wan at the thought, and suddenly she seemed so fragile that for a brief second, Bellatrix almost felt sorry for Alice's position - almost.

"It is."

"If I see you in combat," Alice's voice was flint, a reflection of the emotion that sparked in her eyes. "All school girl loyalties are cast aside, Black. I'll give no quarter."

"Good." Bellatrix's tone was strident and fierce. "It means that you'll expect none from me."

Angrily, Alice cast a circle and Apparated; the spike of power a mini starburst on the roof of the inn in Nottingham, with enough residual energy left to make Bellatrix's hair stand on end. She felt strangely bereft, annoyed that Alice did not engage in combat, or even dry humour. Alice was too valuable to be an enemy, but too stubborn to realise that her path was ill considered. _Bloody Muggles, and Muggle sympathisers_, she thought. _They spoil things, they always do._

Bellatrix shook her head, trying to shift the torpor that clung to her bones and spirit. She was surprised that she remembered that event; the moment when every flaw and fault in their relationship manifested itself to that parting of ways, and it shocked her to the core at how she hurt.

"You, you're… you're both…?" the vicar's voice, soft and bumbling, ripped her from the moor of musings into the present. Bellatrix shifted her attention to her companion.

"You're afraid," she surmised correctly, "and so you should be. Although you haven't tried to flee as yet. Why, I wonder?" The vicar's face was waxen in its pallor, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly, and his body shivered as if in the grip of ague. But his voice was surprisingly steady when he answered: "I'm still charged to do my duty as a s- steward of this parish. As long as people seek succour, I can't leave. Have you finished your recollections? If so, I begin the rite." Bellatrix's smile was terrible, and treacherous. She wondered if - no. Not tonight. In her mind's eye she saw what she did to the Longbottoms', how she shattered all the things that made Alice, Alice. Bellatrix knew deep down that Alice's injuries did not move her, because The War of Purity demanded causalities.

The dispatch of blood traitors came first, despite former loyalties. Alice, on her part, would have done the same. No quarter asked, none given. It is what it was. In the battle, they were not women; they were beyond the skins of their sex, beyond the compunctious visitings of their natures. But she had seen Alice again, a time before tonight. Normally, she held that memory at bay, as a miser buried his gold, or a tailor stored his best silks. It was an odd memory - and surprisingly bittersweet - that she never shared with anyone. Not that she could, because it hinted at a weakness she rarely showed.

"Memories grant me one more," Bellatrix intoned, scrying the surface again, her magic harsh enough to part the liquid in its silver tray. The liquid bubbled and tossed restlessly in its shallow container, and in Bellatrix's eye, the colour shifted from orange brown to blue, and she saw the headland in her memories.

"One more," she hissed, "three plus one yeilds four."

 

"A boon," Alice said, "before you go, a boon."

Bellatrix edged away from the circle she had cast. The area Alice chose was well spotted; near blessed ground so that their powers dimmed to the point where one had to be more formal and stringent with the directive of his magic. No idle Unforgivable here. If any of them did anything rash, they would feel it sharpish. The sea tumbled inland, bringing a further temperance of their powers, along the North Northumberland coast. Bellatrix appreciated the wild and lonely shore, with its rocky havens and steep headland spearing into the wintry blue of the sky above. Ah yes, the little Auror chose well.

"A boon?" Bellatrix lifted an eyebrow in lazy surprise. Amusement made her voice bubble, her lips curve. "Come now, Alice, after we've both foresworn each other as foe?"

"Boons and debts are separated from war and politics, Bellatrix, we both know this. This is why we avoid Wizarding debt."

Bellatrix nodded, acknowledging the truth of it, careful to squash her growing impatience with Alice. For blood spells were an anathema on blessed ground, and as feral as she was, there were certain grounds that even daemons feared to tread.

"Either I give you willingly, nor not at all." Alice inclined her head in agreement.

"As you will."

"Name your boon, then." Bellatrix sneered, her patience at an end. "If it amuses me, it shall be."

"I expected no less," Alice inclined her head in agreement, and she stepped towards Bellatrix, catching the latter off guard by threading their arms together, as if they were on a school outing along the wild coast. Intrigued in spite of herself, Bellatrix allowed herself to be led, secretly enjoying the fury of the wind as it hissed and spat water at them both, like a score of ill-tempered camels.

"So, your boon?" Bellatrix prompted after a few minutes.

"No rush," Alice shook her head. "I heard tell, that at Hogwarts you were keen for snogging."

"Do tell," Bellatrix preened, flicking her hair from her face. "As for me, a lady never does."

"Well, tis a fine thing then," Alice's laugh was easy, almost lulling Bellatrix into the affection that both women had shared, once upon a time. "You were never one, Black. Always a witch."

"I can't help it if boys liked me." Bellatrix said simply. Her background, power and magic made her self-assured, and devilishly so. Bellatrix never saw the need to be demure, or play the coquette. It was never her style.

"Of course not," Alice stopped in mid stride and turned to her. "Despite and in spite of your failings, you always had your admirers."

"_Failings?_" Bellatrix hummed, wondering if she should bestir herself to be offended. It would give her an excuse to cast an Unforgivable, to score the air with screams. Bonds of friendship- even former ones- could be so tiresome at times. Yet, despite everything, she still liked Alice.

"Careful Longbottom, you verge on insult and I haven't heard your boon yet." And Bellatrix's annoyance turned to bafflement as Alice flushed and broke away from her.

"It's not much of a boon, Black," Alice turned back to her, her chin set in that way Bellatrix knew well. "I want a kiss."

"A kiss?" Bellatrix's voice reflected her surprise. "What sort of favour is this?"

"A small one. Before our paths cleave outright," Alice's voice was quick and sharp. "A kiss before dying."

"You ask for much, Longbottom."

"I know it," Alice admitted. "We've each sworn fealty to opposing sides, and you won't be swayed."

"Nor will you."

"No, I will not. Nevertheless, we were Housemates Bellatrix. At times, even friends. I shan't ask again."

"I'm no Ravenclaw, that won't work on me," Bellatrix sniffed, folding her arms across her chest in a sulk. "I'm not one to argue, or inveigle a boon to show how _clever_ I am."

"You're scared, then." Alice sneered, as she turned to walk away.

"I'm no Gryffindor either," Bellatrix retorted. "I don't need an attack on my bravery to be spurred to recklessness."

"No," Alice shoved her hands in her hair, keeping it back from her face. "You never were. None of your family has been, save-"

"Please," Bellatrix held up a hand. "We were having a pleasant conversation- and where are you going?"

"You've already said no." Alice drew out her wand ready to cast a circle to disapparate.

"I've not said." Bellatrix stalked towards her, palm out. "I will ask, though. Why?"

"I don't know." Alice shook her head, "I've always wanted- ever since we did our NEWTS. But I never-" she stopped as a blush stained her cheeks poppy, but she did not look away. "You were betrothed to Lestrange. It didn't seem right. Tempting - because you were barking mad and fab - despite you being a Black. We're now in the midst of a war, and I've always wanted to know. Haven't you?"

For the first time in her life, Bellatrix found herself at a loss for words. Even more surprisingly, for the first time in a long while, she felt moved to be kind. "I fear Alice, that I've become unsexed," she began. " The war does this to all of us. It makes us sexless, immune to any other passion but our cause."

"And you think," Alice replied, her hand splayed against her chest for emphasis, "that I'm no less? I fight. Have fought for what seems like millennia, and I'm cold all the time. I too, am no different." There was a beat of silence at this, as Bellatrix weighed the options, and considered. She had never thought of Alice Longbottom in _that_ way. Alice was a fellow Slytherin resourceful, cunning with a certain disregard for the rules that appealed. Bellatrix _liked_ Alice, her steadiness of purpose and her sense of humour for starters. Her politics was unfortunate, and yet.

It seemed all of a hundred years before she processed the request, and Alice's hand was on her wand, ready to disapparate at a moment's notice. Yet.

"It's such a little thing, after all." Bellatrix said with a regal nod of assent. "Done."

"Ever so magnanimous, Black." Alice said with a gravitas so nakedly mocking, it made Bellatrix laugh. It was a rare sort of amusement in these times - untainted by any other emotion or lust except for whimsy.

"I cast a circle," Bellatrix said while doing the movement simultaneously. "We cinch here, and no where else."

"You don't trust me, then?" Alice whipped her wand out, her movements mirroring Bellatrix's own, layering the other's spell casting with one of her own.

"No."

The spell was done, the circle made, and both of them stood there, watching the waves as they simultaneously heaved, shattered on the rocks and recoiled from the shore. Bellatrix was aware of the snap of their robes on the wind, whipping like sails in mid tack. It was the same mood of awe, as if they were in St. Paul's again, but not the girlish giggles or banter that they come to know.

"If you look beyond," Alice said, gesturing with a vague wave of her hand. "The Farne islands are out there, with seals and such."

"Have you been?"

"I can't say. Secrets and Information Act, 1943. Article 1, section 38."

"Of course." Silence again, and Bellatrix stole a look at Alice, taking in the curve of her lashes, the clear hazel of her eyes, and wondering which of them would fall first. Bellatrix was about to turn away, to look towards the Farne Islands, and imagine herself seeing seals (whatever those were). Only to pause in mid movement when Alice turned her face to hers, and Bellatrix realised- her heart a sudden, sharp bump beneath her ribs- that she wanted to.

They were almost the same height, odd that Bellatrix did not notice this before. Bellatrix was a tall woman, her height a distinguishing feature of her bloodline. It was such, her mother said, so that they could look down on others. Alice came in an inch or so under her height. Bellatrix took in Alice's features: plain, sturdy and Northern. Alice's skin was as pale and pretty as a milkmaid's, a contrast to the golden tones of Bellatrix's own, due to the latter's French background. Alice raised her hands and placed them on Bellatrix's shoulders, and Bellatrix felt the tremble of her friend's fingers through her cloak.

"I've never-" Alice swallowed before continuing, "with a girl, I mean."

"Good, neither have I." Bellatrix said, delighting at the flutters in her stomach due to Alice's touch. Experiences were there to be had, after all.

"There's power in the first."

With this, Bellatrix threw her arm around Alice's shoulders and brought their faces together, her breath hitching as Alice moved her hands from Bellatrix's shoulders to frame her face and tentatively stroke her hair. Bellatrix moved in, touching her lips to Alice's. She felt Alice shift, her lips parting for Bellatrix's own, and when their tongues slid against each other, Bellatrix felt her senses blur, and her eyes blind. It was touch, and taste, and nothing but this: the nibble of teeth on her lower lip, the flutter of tongues against each other. Alice had the tang of crushed berries on her tongue and _yes_. It was clumsy, with their noses bumping against each other, and their lips brushing against their cheeks before they met again. And Bellatrix stepped through the looking glass of Alice's memories, the sheet of them disappearing into a sort of silver mist, feeling resistance giving way like gauze.

Tentatively, because enchantment shattered with undue force, Bellatrix touched her fingertips to Alice's cheek, her senses swamped by the smell of the soap on Alice's skin, a bit of sun, honey and warmth in contrast to the weather around them, and Bellatrix wanted more.

_Magic_, Bellatrix thought, feeling the prickle of it against her mind, and she pressed forward, her heart tripping at the images she pulled from Alice. The time they sat out a dance together, sharing a butterbeer, rolling their eyes at Avery trying to soft shuffle. In the garden of Alice's thoughts, she found wonderful blooms: Alice referred to her as _Bella_, and liked when Bellatrix wore her hair up because it showed the smooth column of her neck.

Bellatrix caught a whiff of her scent through Alice's thoughts- she smelt of the dark: of incense and sandalwood with a hint of astringent cedar. There was more: through Alice's eyes, Bellatrix was stunning, the darkly attractive Rothschild violet against the creamy foil of Aurelia lilies that marked her sisters, Narcissa and Andromeda. Finally, Bellatrix understood the shy smile Alice gave her that time in the library, when their fingers lit on the same book in the restricted section, and Alice drew her hand away as if burnt. That time in the church, Bellatrix's face was filled with wonder at the power within its walls and Alice's breath was a catch in her throat as Bellatrix glowed in the candlelight.

Bellatrix was a dark and knowing Delilah, something so _delightfully_ profane in a sacred space. Alice's lips left hers to trace her jaw, the blunt edges of teeth on her neck, leaving lovely ripples of awareness at every space they touched. Various sensations tugged at Bellatrix in waves, the feel of Alice's hands in her hair, Alice's body sturdy and strong against her own. Every image was a heartbeat and every heartbeat a memory; every memory a span of a lifetime. Absently, she felt the movement of her hair as it loosed from her cowl, to swirl wildly around their faces as if they were underwater.

Innocently, Bellatrix slid deeper into Alice's mind, inadvertently opening the door to her own past impressions, wanting to share them with Alice- and _no!_ \- the silken flow of memory snagged on a nail, before it made an ugly ripping sound. The mental slip of Legilmency as it stealthy groped and searched for other memories that had no place in this moment. In her sensitised state, it was akin to being shredded by claws. With a mental _whoosh_, she retreated into her own space. Angrily, she broke the kiss by roughly shoving them apart.

"Bellatrix, what-?" Alice started.

"You damn us." Bellatrix spat, her voice trembled as she tried to clamp down on her temper, but her ire was too great.

"You've damned us both." The dreamy look in Alice's eyes vanished in a matter of seconds; replaced by an awareness so sharp, it stunned.

"Probably I have. But I had to know."

"You risk all, knowing that-?"

"You're an Occlumiens, yes." Alice cut in.

"Your memories-?" Bellatrix cut herself off, refusing to say anything more in that vein. Alice's glare could have transmogrified vapour into snowflakes at ten paces.

"Are _true_." Alice's voice hitched for a fraction of a second at Bellatrix's challenge. "You've seen them. You've felt them."

"And you would use all that we were-" Bellatrix picked her next words carefully, "- all that you _feel_ to upend the cause?"

"You're no better."

"I'll never forgive you for this transgression, Alice. Never."

"I know," was all Alice said. With temper surging through her, Bellatrix attacked. With a speed that caught Alice off guard, she thrust the business end of her wand at the nape of Alice's neck. Not easily bested, Alice parried quickly, her wand at Bellatrix' temple.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you right now." Bellatrix hissed, feeling the pulse of power flooding through her, her temper dangerously combustible, the consequences of her actions be damned.

"Many." Alice was calm, almost serenely so. "We're on blessed ground, near salt water. My cloak is steeped in Rowan, as well as my tongue. You kissed me _willingly_ Black, which adds another layer of protection."

"You _witch_!" Bellatrix shrieked, her ire swinging towards bloodlust. "You used a _binding charm_ on me?" Alice gingerly touched her lips with the tips of her fingers.

"It won't stay long, but if you cursed me, you'd give yourself a shock."

On any other day, Bellatrix might have been flattered at the lengths and stealth Alice went to just to protect herself. She also might have found it appealing- in a twisted sort of way- that Alice carried around these unrequited feelings for all this time. Yes, on another day, Bellatrix would have been charmed.

"I'll kill you, Alice Burke Longbottom, I _swear_ it. I'll do worse than kill you," Bellatrix vowed. "I'll _break_ you."

Alice nodded, her eyes cold and hard. "Not if I get you first."

"You've already gotten me first," Bellatrix's tone was sharp and unguarded.

"There's power in the first." Alice retorted, casting her own circle to break the hold of magic there. Before she disapparated, their eyes met, and Bellatrix read the message there. _Bella, you don't know of your Lord's whereabouts either, what does that say about him?_. Impotent with rage, because she could not kill Alice on the spot, Bellatrix shrieked and a sinister curse sizzled through her wand anyway. And she found herself back in the vicarage, splattered with liquid. Coming back to herself, she lifted her hand to her cheek, to calm herself.

"I kept my word," she said, taking her hand away from her cheek, mildly surprised to see blood across her palm. She looked up, only to see the vicar clutching his arm, ribbons of blood trailing towards his elbow and dripping on the floor. _Three plus one is four - close to me, I'll see no more._

"Y-you, killed her?" Geoffrey gulped, his face clammy from shock, and a not a little bit of fear, Bellatrix surmised correctly, because his thoughts ran to fiends and evil spirits. Perhaps, Bellatrix mused, he was not far wrong.

"Only in the way that matters. She sought to blindside me using her memories." Bellatrix's narrowed eyes turned molten at the recollection. "She shan't do that again."

"N-no?"

"No." Bellatrix shook her head, and with a flick of her hand, she bound her hair into a low-slung queue that snaked down her cowl.

With another flick of her hand, she set the table to rights, the fire around the tray extinguished, the silver service reassembled as it was before, ready to serve tea.

"Your hospitality is appreciated. You've given me space to honour a fellow Slytherin." Geoffrey felt himself almost collapse in relief. His guest's face was warm, almost soft with the reminiscence as she spoke of this Alice.

"You loved her," he gulped, thinking that if she continued speaking, it would be good for him. She would go back from whence she came, and he would leave this wretched place.

"As a friend," she confirmed, her eyes shifting to the colour of hell smoke. "As a Slytherin, as a sister," Bellatrix mused, shaking her head free of memories and a kiss. "But no matter, I must away."

"So you won't kill me, then?" Geoffrey managed, his self imposed stewardship forgotten in his fear, as his eyes were fixated on the black small circle of the wand at the tip of his nose.

"No," she smiled; laugh lines crinkling around the smoke of her eyes, and in that split second before _everything_ Geoffrey suddenly understood what Alice had seen in this woman, and muttered a requiem for that lost soul.

"I'm weary. You won't die by my hand tonight," her voice was wistful for a moment, as if she regretted her judgement. The air shimmered before his eyes, as if it were warped by flame, and over the buzz of his fear, she mouthed: "_Obliviate_."

Fin.


End file.
